The Next Letter...

September 15, 2__________


Dear Samantha,

Sorry for the big gap in time, but your TT has been overcome, overwhelmed, and completely bogged down in medical mumbo jumbo. My dear friend Dr. Sandy has turned me over to her lovely colleague, a Dr. Rex Alexander. His last name should be Tyrannosaurus, if you get my drift. He’s got my life for the next twelve weeks all planned, and it involves me spending inordinate amounts of time in the accommodations of his choosing, with tubes dripping lethal chemical cocktails into my veins. He says I’ll still be able to read, write, and listen to music while this is going on. However, I saw the look on the nurse’s face, and I have a feeling that’s all just smoke and mirrors in an attempt to get me to go along with his scheme. Whatever - I at least have to give it the old college try, don’t I?

Speaking of college – you will love it! I know that seems like a long time in the future, but trust me, time totally flies when life is good and you’re having fun. And college is just the most fun ever! Make sure you go away somewhere, because that’s the best part. I admit, at first it’s a really weird feeling to share some dinky little room with someone you hardly know, and maybe don’t even like all that much. But, if you’re anything like me, you won’t spend much time in your room. Now, hang on, I didn’t mean it like that - I did some partying, but not all that much. What I meant was, that you’ll get involved in so many activities that you’ll always be off somewhere doing some fun thing or other. And, if you’re lucky enough to inherit your TT”s musical genius (and humility!) you’ll find your way into enough things to keep you from ever missing the comforts of home.

Seriously, the trick to enjoying college, or anything in life, is to jump in and try lots of things. Get involved with whatever you’re passionate about. If it’s not music, maybe it will be photography, or science. Even your mom has picked up on that trick for living. Just because I don’t agree with most of the things she’s passionate about, doesn’t mean she shouldn’t give her whole heart to them.

I probably shouldn’t talk this way about your mom, dear Samantha. After all, she is my own flesh and blood, my first and only born. She will be a wonderful mother to you, in her way, which will be overly bossy and mightily opinionated. But she will love you with every ounce of her being, and that’s saying a lot. You will need lots of patience at times, but, if you stick with her, she’ll reward you in the end.

I was only 24 when your mom was born, so I was pretty young myself. My college days were freshly over, and I had just gotten engaged to your grandfather. (We’ll talk about him more later.)
So young and in love, excited to get on with our lives, we hurried up the wedding and found a little apartment not far from campus where I was still involved with several musical groups and could pick up lots of accompanying jobs. Anne Elizabeth, my royal princess, named for those English roses I was so fond of reading about, was “to the manor born,” as the saying goes. Certainly not literally, but she had a regal bearing even as an infant. I can still see her, sitting up so straight and tall in her highchair, staring me down with those huge blue eyes as she daintily accepted her little spoonfuls of strained peas and applesauce. For the longest time, she refused to wear anything except dresses, and her closet was filled with row upon row of pink, yellow, and lavender printed delights, most of them purchased for her by her grandmother, Queen Frances.

Anne was a challenge for me. She was always such a perfectionist, even when she was very small. I remember how she would cry and cry when she couldn’t color exactly inside the lines of her coloring books, or if her stickers got stuck and ripped as she was peeling them off the page. It was as if the world were coming to an end. No amount of comforting or distraction could make up for the fact that something she was doing wasn’t coming out correctly.

Life is hard when you’re like that, and it was hard for your mom. She couldn’t understand why other children didn’t take things as seriously as she did. “All they want to do is play these stupid games!” she would complain bitterly. Sure they did, they were just kids. Anne always came up with elaborate scenarious for her games, requiring everyone to play a role perfectly, and follow her direction. I though she would surely go into the theater, because she certainly had a flair for the dramatic. “Honestly!” she would exclaim, in exasperation at some faux pas on the part of one of her friends or her parents. The blue eyes would roll in disgust, and she would shudder in mock horror.

There was one person your mom was always in complete harmony with. Her grandmother – my mother Frances.

Frances Lysander, born on the east side of Boston, to a college professor and a suffragette. Intellectual, was Frances, and somewhat on the haughty side. I remember her dressing for dinner every day, even when it was just the four of us at the table. She might be on her hands and knees, sweating in her rose garden at 4:30, but by 6:00 she was perfectly coiffed, fresh pink lipstick on her lips, and one of those full skirted dresses swirling around her slim, nylon clad ankles. I couldn’t figure that out, but it seemed to please my dad. He always had a big smile for her when he came in, and I loved the way he could grab her around the waist and twirl her off the ground. She would always scold him good naturedly, although she was laughing in delight. Such a twinkle in her eye when my dad was around. I never saw her happier than when they were together.

Anne Elizabeth and Frances were two of a kind. They could potter around for hours in a craft shop, oohing and ahhing over different colors of yarn, plotting just what kind of sweater or blanket they could knit. And put them in a nursery or botanical garden and they wouldn’t come out for days. When your mom graduated from high school, Frances took her to England for a month. They toured all the gardens from Kent to York. I believe your mother would consider that the highlight of her life. Until you’re born, of course.

She’s a really good person, your mom. You will learn your own way to handle her. And maybe you will be enough like her that you’ll know just how to circumvent all her little idiosyncrasies.

Time for another handful of those horse pills that lovely doctor gave me. We’ll talk again soon, I promise…

Love endlessly,
TT